


I Think You Have a Problem

by KaiserKittenWalzer



Category: John Mulaney - Fandom, Pete Davidson - Fandom, Saturday Night Live
Genre: Drug Addiction, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17955878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaiserKittenWalzer/pseuds/KaiserKittenWalzer
Summary: John decides it's time he and Pete have a talk about his issues before things get even more out of hand. This is set a couple of weeks before the two's appearance on SNL to review 'The Mule.'These are obviously two real people and I know nothing about them or what they're going through.  I just wanted to write about a connection I hoped was there between them, because I hope everyone has a friend they can count on when things go down hill. This is probably no one's story, really. It's just make-believe. Finally, there are a million ways to get help if you need it and want it.  Look out for yourself and look out for the people who mean something to you. You only get them once.





	I Think You Have a Problem

Pete sat on the edge of the bed, his hands buried deep in his hoodie. The brim of a black ball cap was perched low, just above his brow. Beneath it, he stared with an unfocused, nowhere-in-particular gaze, right through the large bedroom window at a city whose lights sparkled in the sky's deep blue hues that slowly surrendered to the night.

In spite of the serene charm of the cityscape, Pete seemed inexplicably vexed. He didn't really know what to make of all those lights outside, but there they were: little island outposts in some cold void. Pete wondered if they were happy out there. He wondered if they saw him too, if they stared back. Did they wonder what he was doing, or what game he was playing all by himself, here on this lonely back-lit outpost all his own?

 _They're probably having fun. It's Friday night, after all._ Pete sighed in resignation. _I mean, maybe they're not. Maybe someone's getting domestically abused._

Pete scoffed in disbelief at his own internal dialogue. People accused him of saying anything that came to mind, but no one ever heard what he'd left unspoken, and what was worse, even those things he left un-said were not left un-thought. There was no turning that off, it seemed.

The phone in his hand began to vibrate. It was John calling. Pete just stared at the device, knowing he should probably pick up, but something in him hoped he could power through the urge to answer and he could pretend he'd just missed... _shucks_ , his phone stopped. _Oh well, that's a shame. Guess I'll call him later._ Pete unlocked the screen to get rid of the missed call notification when a text came in, _Where are you? I'm downstairs- John_

 _Shit_ , thought Pete, suddenly remembering that John was supposed to come over tonight. He quickly called down to the lobby, "Hey it's Pete, I've got a friend here. His name's John. Can you let him up? Thanks."

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. "Come in,” Pete yelled from the bedroom, "Sorry about downstairs. I told them to expect you. I don't know what happened." Pete winced at his own lie. Bobby at the front desk was a nice kid, and he felt bad putting the blame on him.

Pete got up from the bed when he heard the ruffle of plastic bags. "No problem! Happy Friday, man!” John yelled from the kitchen. “I'm glad I even got here at all. Traffic was a nightmare. You wouldn't believe!" Something about the effervescent cheerfulness of John's disembodied voice forced a small smirk from Pete. He quickly checked himself in the mirror before leaving the bedroom. _Ugh,_ he grimaced, _I can't tell if that's a mirror or a mugshot_.

He emerged from his room which was in one corner of the modestly-sized apartment. The front door was diagonally across, at the other end of the small home. Off to one side was an open kitchen and eating area, and to the right there were couches, and the all-important tv, with Pete's extensive collection of B horror movies keeping it company.

Pete's hands were still shoved into his hoodie as he lingered outside his bedroom with a slight hunch. John's back was turned. He was reaching high up into the cupboards, arranging some boxes and cans on the otherwise mostly bare shelves. “I just got a few things to stock you up,” he said, closing the cupboard doors, and turning around. His cheerful face turned instantly to one of concern. “You forgot I was coming, didn't you?”

Pete was about to deny it, but he was too tired to think up a lie, “Uh, yeah, yeah I guess I did. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” John said, reassuringly, before turning stern in a way which neither his appearance nor voice could deliver with sincerity, “And by the look of things, you forgot how to dress, bathe, and groom too. And that, sir, just won't do. Back in there,” he said, pointing towards the bedroom, “and don't come out 'til you remember how to be a human.”

Pete started to protest, “I mean, we're just hanging out here tonight, I don't think it's...”

“No!” John interjected, as if he were scolding a cat, “Now, hurry up. I'm going to clean up whatever this… this thing is in front of my eyes.” His voice trailed off, as he surveyed an apartment which might be considered, with an abundance of generosity, to be slightly to moderately disheveled.

“Okay,” Pete conceded, shuffling back into his room. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the sound of John wondering out loud why the pictures on the wall were askew, and whether there had been a robbery. Pete went into his bathroom, turned the shower on, and quickly found some reasonably clean clothes. He was now embarrassingly aware that even his hastiest preparations amounted to a rude delay for his guest.

Pete emerged fifteen minutes later, fresher, if still somewhat worse-for-wear. The bags under his eyes were deep, and his chin still bore a five o'clock shadow if five o'clock had been last Sunday. John, though, didn't seem to mind. “Looking much better,” he said. He was still moving about the apartment, and at an amazing speed. _Where does he get the energy?_ Pete wondered, _where can I get that kind of energy?_

“This place looks different already. How'd you do that so fast?” asked Pete in disbelief.

“Just picked up a few things, here and there,” said John absentmindedly. “In my experience, little stuff like this has a way of jut piling up each day. Nothing big at first, but one day goes and another comes, and then it all gets out-of-hand. But don't worry, it's manageable, and we'll work on it.”

“Well, thanks. It looks great,” Pete said, suddenly feeling just a little ashamed.

“Don't mention it,” John said, putting away a can of Pledge, before plopping on one of the couches. Pete didn't recall ever having bought a can of Pledge. Maybe we _can make a shelf of 'John things,'_ he mused. John seemed distracted and was staring at his phone, quickly typing something Pete couldn't make out.

“Cattywampus,” said John, as if anticipating the question Pete would not have bothered to ask.

“What?” asked Pete.

“Cattywampus. That's what this apartment was,” said John decidedly.

Pete shrugged, “Don't know that one.”

“What do you mean? It's the word of the day,” said John, seeming perplexed that he'd caught Pete unaware with this fact.

“Word of the day?”

“Yes. Word of the day,” said John, distracted by a text message.

“Cattywampus,” muttered Pete, not entirely sure how else to respond.

“Cattywampus,” John repeated firmly, his eyes still fixed on his phone, his fingers still typing away furiously.

 

Pete could do nothing but shake his head and give a resigned laugh. John had always been a bit of an oddball, but then again, that was part of his charm, and who was he, Pete, really to judge?

“So, what do you want to do tonight?” he asked John.

John's manic fingers stopped mid frenzied flight at Pete's query.

“I'm kind of hungry, to be honest. But by the looks of it, I don't think we're going to be making anything here. You've got barely anything in the kitchen.”

“But you brought stuff over,” said Pete. “I don't know, we could make some sandwiches, or something.”

“Let's order in. That way you'll have groceries for later, when I'm not here.”

Pete shrugged, “That sounds good. I've been getting delivery mostly anyway.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah. Haven't felt much like cooking,” Pete said, sitting down on the couch adjacent.

“Well, what's good?” John asked.

“I don't know, whatever you feel like. I don't really care,” Pete grunted. He leaned forward and picked up a half-burnt joint from an ash tray on the coffee table.

“No, really,” said John, “What's your favorite?” He was browsing Google. “Do you like Mexican?”

“That's what I got last time,” said Pete.

“Oh. That's boring. You probably don't want the same thing two days in a row,” John replied.

“It doesn't matter,” Pete insisted.

“It's just...” John started.

Pete rolled his eyes, _Oh my God, just pick something already_. _I don't care._

John didn't seem to notice, “Of all the crap I just picked up around here, I didn't see any take-away,”

 _Shit,_ thought Pete.

“Where's the burrito wrapper, Pete?” John asked him accusingly.

Pete burst out laughing. This was absurd. “Uh, look, man, I don't know, I probably threw it out already.”

“You haven't left your goddamned apartment in at least three days,” said John. “And even if you had, do you expect me to believe you threw out only your take-away, and none of the other shit I just cleaned up? Do you think I'm a fucking idiot?”

Pete was taken aback, enough so that his hand holding the joint paused mid-air. John barely _ever_ swore.

“I uh... yeah, maybe it's been a few days since I ate. I don't really remember,” he said cautiously.

“And you're sorry,” John said, seeming to want to continue for Pete.

Pete seemed confused, “… sorry for not eating?” he asked. “Yeah, I mean, I guess... Sure.”

“Sorry for lying to me,” John corrected.

The silence was thick between them.

Pete didn't know what to say. He hadn't meant to lie to him. _Had_ he lied to him? If he he had, he hadn't realized it. _Does that make it better?_ Pete asked himself, suddenly very confused.

John clearly disapproved. “Friends don't lie to each other, even when it's things like pretending they're eating even when they're really not,” he said.

Pete sighed, “No. No, you're right. They don't. I'm sorry man.” He hoped his apology would be enough to push aside the uncomfortable barrier that found itself suddenly between them. To his relief, not a moment later, John seemed to dismiss the whole thing with a simple swipe of his finger across his phone's screen.

“Well, Chinese it is,” he said. And just like that, it seemed as if all were forgotten, and he and John found themselves distracted by the offerings of the TV Guide on the television.

“Anything you want to watch?” asked John, scrolling through the list, “A comedy...or maybe a drama?” he asked, with an affected theatrical voice that suggested all the items on offer were very intriguing.

“Let's stick with comedy,” said Pete. “Life's already depressing enough.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Pete looked over at John, realizing how, well, depressing, that had sounded. But John didn't seem fazed in the slightest. His eyes were still fixed on the tv, but after a moment, he said something that caught Pete off-guard.

“You're right,” he said.

“What?” Pete asked, not quite believing he'd heard him correctly.

“Aha! Weren't expecting that response, were you?” John asked, grinning. He put the remote down before turning slightly more serious. “Actually, Pete, life isn't depressing. It just seems that way right now.”

Pete rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. It's all in my head.”

“Mmmm… no not really,” John replied. “It's very much outside your head too.” He surveyed the apartment. “Seriously, Pete, life isn't depressing, _your_ life is depressing. This is a disaster. It's more than a disaster. This is FEMA tragic.”

“ _Hey!”_ cried Pete in protest, “Okay, I might have gone off the rails a little bit. I'll admit that, yeah, but it's not that bad. I'm just… in recovery,” he explained. Pete got off the couch, ditching the burned out roach. He headed to the fridge and popped open a can of beer before settling back down on the edge of the sofa to roll another joint.

“ _Oh my god,”_ Pete heard John say.

“What? What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said John, “I'm just trying to figure out the best way to tell you how truly fucked you are, and it's proving a challenge.”

“Wow, we're really not pulling any punches tonight, are we?” Pete asked, slumping back into the couch with is beer.

John shook his head, “I'm just going to put the Princess Bride on, and pretend that choice is totally devoid of symbolism.”

“Whatever,” Pete said, trying to shift the conversation. “Good movie anyway. When's the food going to get here by the way?”

“Should be any time.” John checked his phone, “Oh, actually, they're on their way up now. Don't get up, I'll get it. Seeing someone like you in this kind of place might make them call the police.”

“Hey what the hell man?” Pete was starting to get pissed. "Did you come here just to be an asshole?"

John opened the door, “I didn't come here with a case of the cuddles, if that's what you were expecting,” John said sarcastically over his shoulder. The delivery man seemed confused, if his look said anything at all. “Oh sorry,” said John, “Thanks for coming so fast, my friend is very sick, but don't worry, he's going to get better,” he said reassuringly.

“I, uh, really wasn't worried about that,” admitted the deliveryman, still somewhat confounded by what he'd stumbled on.

John closed the door in the man's face. “Byeeee!” he said before returning to the couch with the take-away.

“Really got to admire the guy's honesty,” he quipped, unconcerned, it seemed, whether the delivery man was still lingering in the hall. He and Pete arranged the food out on the coffee table.

“So you want to talk about what's going on?” John asked at the end of the movie.

“I don't know man, I've just been upset since the break up. That's all there is to say,” Pete explained.

“Look, Pete, I know the breakup's been hard on you, and yeah, it's normal to take some time to recover from something like that. But can we just address the elephant in the room?”

“Something tells me we're gonna,” Pete sighed.

“Well, do you wanna go first, or should I?” John asked.

 

Pete didn't quite know if the two of them really were on the same page. As far as elephants were concerned, he could have pointed out three or four, but things could get worse if he started talking about something completely different from whatever was on John's mind. He didn't believe John was laying a trap, but he certainly wasn't going to lay one for himself.

“Why don't you go first,” he said. “You came all this way, it'd be rude not to let you say what you came here to say.”

John frowned, “Well, first of all, I didn't come here just to say something. I came here to make sure you were doing okay, but I was also hoping we could talk about the fact that this isn't the first time this has happened, Pete.

“So I've had more than one relationship fall through. It's normal.”

“Yeah, and so is having some post-relationship blues, that's true. But this is starting to become a patten and it's getting to be a problem.”

“I don't know if it's a pattern. Sometimes you just gotta go fishing a few times,” Pete shrugged.

“Yeah, but every time one relationship is over, the same thing happens. You get super depressed, and you just retreat into your hole, and you don't talk to anyone, and then you start to act out, and...”

“I don't act out!” Pete protested, resentful at being compared to a misbehaving child.

“No, I didn't... I mean...” John paused to collect himself, “You start to act off, and well, we worry about you.”

“Who worries about me?” Pete asked incredulously. “No one cares. This is just my latest car wreck, and that's what everyone came here to see. That's what they care about, that's what they want isn't it?”

“Who is they?” asked John.

“The world, everybody!” Pete yelled.

“I hope you don't actually feel that way,” said John, “And for the record, lots of people worry about you.”

“Well, I'll be fine,” Pete reassured him with a tinge of sarcasm that clearly did nothing to convince his friend.

 

John couldn't hold it in anymore. “No. You know what, Pete? It's time you stop saying that, because I don't believe it, and you obviously don't either. I'm sick of pretending that you're fine, when you're clearly not. And I'm sorry that I have to be the one to say it, but you clearly aren't going to, and no one else has the balls to, so here we are.”

“Well thank you for being so brave, John. Thank you for being so brave for all of us.”

“Pete, do you think you have a problem with drugs?” John asked abruptly.

Pete looked around, suddenly uncomfortable. “What? Look, I don't know man. It's not something I really think about. I guess I do indulge a little more than I should, but we all have to have an outlet.”

“That really wasn't a question so do you just want to say yes and make this easier?” asked John.

Pete paused as he suddenly found himself in the strangest of places. Here they both were, alone, in his apartment. It was as if every distraction: every light, taste, sound, had stopped. And Pete realized that it wasn't the silent stillness that was unbearable, but knowing only he could make things move again. Things could go in any direction, and what direction was totally up to him. No one was going to do it for him. No one was going to take the reins. The moment when he most desperately wanted anyone else in the world to tell him what to do, what to say, was the moment when he felt the whole world paused, waiting for him. And in that moment his heart skipped, then dropped into the floor.

“Sure, yeah. Yes.”

“Yes, what?” asked John.

“Ugh, yes. Yes, I have a… a,”

"Substance abuse problem?” John filled in helpfully.

“A substance abuse problem,” Pete parroted. “Happy now?”

“I'd be happy if you believed it, but I guess that's a start,” John grumbled, any sound of playfulness now long gone from his voice.

”What are you having a problem with, specifically? he pressed Pete.

“I don't know. Maybe I smoke a little too much,” Pete offered, sounding annoyed.

“Would it be safe to say that maybe you're having a problem with ALL the drugs?” John asked.

Pete threw up his hands, “Sure, _all the drugs_ , _John. I have a problem with all the drugs._ ”

“ _And_ the alcohol,” John continued.

“Well, I don't know about that. That's not as bad as all the other stuff.”

First of all, “Yes, yes it is. And second of all, if it was just a beer or two, that would be one thing, but it's more than that, isn't it?”

“Again. Break-up. Normal.”

“Break-ups aside, from cleaning up around here, either you've had several ragers you didn't invite me to, which would be very rude, or, there's something else going on. I'm saying, either I just cleaned up the apartment of someone with a problem, or you're holding onto a hell of an explanation. I honestly don't know where I could find more empty vodka bottles outside of a Russian hospital.”

“Okay, fine. Let's say, just for a minute, that I've got a problem. What am I supposed to do?” Pete asked.

“Well, what do you think you should do?” asked John.

“Sleep it off, probably,” said Pete, who got up again to go to the fridge.

“Well, yeah, that's probably not a bad idea,” said John, “But then what?”

“I'll figure that out tomorrow,” said Pete.

“Alright,” John finally relented. “Would it be okay if, maybe, we can figure that out tomorrow, together?”

Pete returned to the couch with another beer in hand and sat down.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said John, “but only if you want.”

Pete didn't know quite what to say, “Yeah.” He croaked a little, before collecting himself, “I mean...yeah. That'd be nice. Okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah I'm sure. Tomorrow, though.”

“Tomorrow,” John confirmed.

“Tomorrow,” Pete echoed.

“But in the mean time,” said Pete, turning on the PS4 and cracking his beer, “It's still today.”

“Not for long,” replied John.

Pete, though, was undeterred, “be that as it may, I think I'm still entitled to a few hours of drunken bliss and the right to kick your ass in any game of your choosing.”

“You're on,” John chuckled, and the two of them played video games until late into the night.

Pete finally yawned, “I think I'm going to hit the sack,” he said. “It's late. You can crash if you want.”

“I'm good with the couch,” said John.

“You sure?” Pete asked. John nodded.

“Well, okay.” He shuffled off to the bedroom, “Good night," he said. "See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” said John, as Pete's door closed.


End file.
